


tell you the story of who i am

by shellybelle



Series: if music be the soul of love [3]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Leverage OT3, Multi, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 11:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4875343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellybelle/pseuds/shellybelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What are you looking at?”</p>
<p>Eliot doesn’t startle, because he never startles, but if anyone could manage to sneak up on him, even after all this time, it was Parker. “Nothing.”</p>
<p>“It’s not nothing.” She hops up to sit on the counter, as nimble as she was ten years ago. “What’s going on?”</p>
<p>She looks so earnest, so concerned, that he caves. “I look old.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell you the story of who i am

**Author's Note:**

> Work inspired by [The Story](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ih3xSQsdPAA) by Brandi Carlile, performed by Sara Ramirez.

“What are you looking at?”

 

Eliot doesn’t startle, because he never startles, but if anyone could manage to sneak up on him, even after all this time, it was Parker. “Nothing.”

 

“It’s not nothing.” She hops up to sit on the counter, as nimble as she was ten years ago. “What’s going on?”

 

She looks so earnest, so concerned, that he caves. “I look old.”

 

Parker blinks. “No you don’t.”

 

“Yes, I do.” And it’s not that he feels _bad_ about it, necessarily, but the decades of fighting and exposure to the elements and constant frowning haven’t treated him well, and he knows he looks older than his forty-one years.

 

“You look like _you_ ,” Parker says, frowning.

 

Hardison pokes his head through the open door. “There y’all are.” He catches sight of Parker’s frown and whatever expression Eliot’s wearing, and narrows his eyes. “What’s up?”

 

Eliot opens his mouth, but Parker is faster. “Eliot thinks he’s old.”

 

“I said I _look_ old,” Eliot corrects,but it’s too late; Hardison is already crossing his arms over his chest, brow furrowing.

 

He always crosses left over right these days, and the bathroom light glints off his ring. Eliot and Parker had put it on his finger together five years ago, and as far as Eliot knows, with the exception of cons, it hasn’t come off since. Even in his self-imposed cloud of self-pity, the sight of it puts a spark of warmth in Eliot’s belly. “You calling my husband old-looking?” Hardison challenges.

 

“No, ma, I just…” Eliot gestures at his face, for lack of anything better. “There’s a lot of lines there,” he says, and it feels strange to put it out there. He’s been feeling the years in his bones and his scars for as long as he can remember, but seeing it on his face is different. “And you and Parker still look…”

 

_Perfect_ , is what his brain provides, but he doesn’t use words like that outside the bedroom. Mostly to keep Hardison’s ego in check. “Like you always have,” he finishes.

 

Hardison snorts. “Hey, man, you know black don’t crack, and Parker’s been getting skin care tips from Sophie. Ain’t now way your white self can compete with that.”

 

His tone is playful and teasing, but there’s nothing truly mocking in it. “Thanks a lot.”

 

“That’s not what he means,” Parker says, swinging her legs back and forth from her perch on the counter. “Hardison, do it right. You’re better at it than me.”

 

Hardison’s expression goes soft when he looks at her, just like it always does when she admits an insecurity. “You’re good at it in your own way, mama,” he says gently. “But I’ll take this one if you want.”

 

“Yes,” Parker says, at the same moment that Eliot retorts, “No one needs to take anything.”

 

“You,” Hardison says, pointing at Eliot, “shut your face.” He steps the rest of the way into the bathroom and takes Eliot by the shoulders. Eliot could throw him off but can’t bring himself to, so he lets Hardison turn him around to face the mirror again. Eliot looks his reflection square in the face, unable to ignore the fact that he already feels a little better when it’s coupled with Hardison’s hands on his waist, Hardison’s chin on his shoulder. “Now,” Hardison says. “Let’s look at some of these lines you got here.”

 

He runs his thumb along the right corner of Eliot’s mouth. “Now, this one here, this is your smirk line. That’s the one you got from years of watching your babies kick ass at their jobs.”

 

“Or from kicking ass by yourself,” Parker adds. “But I think you like it more when we do it.”

 

“Right you are, little mama.” Hardison grins at her, and then turns his attention back to Eliot. “Now these,” he says, smoothing the lines on each side of Eliot’s lips, “are the smile lines. Where’d he get these ones, baby?”

 

Parker leans forward. “In the brew pub,” she says. “And in the kitchen if one of us cooks something right. And when he’s proud of us, like if I say how I’m feeling or Alec goes outside.”

 

“Woman, I go outside,” Hardison interjects, but Parker ignores him.

 

“And when he has a really good fight. And if we’ve had really good sex. Or pulled off a really good con. Or when he plays with Nate and Sophie’s kids.”

 

Eliot can’t not prove her point with that, smiling at the thought of Nate and Sophie’s twin daughters. They’ve just turned seven; they’re funny and smart and absolutely ridiculous, and recently, much to Eliot’s surprise, Parker’s been eyeing them with thoughtful looks of contemplative apprehension and disappearing for long talks with Sophie. Eliot has his suspicions about those talks, and even the possibility that he might be right makes him hope for things he’d long given up wishing for, and he can’t help shooting Hardison’s reflection a grin in the mirror.

 

Hardison smiles back, kisses the juncture of Eliot’s neck and shoulder. “We like your lines, man,” he says.”All of ‘em. Your worry lines, your laugh lines, your oh-no-you-didn’t lines--”

 

“Your ‘damn it, Hardison’ lines,” Parker quips.

 

Hardison pulls her ponytail, and she swats playfully at him. “I’m _say_ ing, your lines are a part of you, just like your scars and your bruises and the way you can feel when it’s going to rain. “Parker smiles at him. “They’re all telling your story, Eliot, about all the things you did and said and smiled at and laughed at; all the things you saw and felt. I like seeing them. They remind me of everything we did together. They…” She chews her bottom lip, brow furrowing, and Eliot loves her so much it hurts. “They make me excited to do more things together. For as long as we can.”

 

“What she said,” Hardison says. “Those lines are our story, spelled out right there on your face. We wouldn’t change any of them.”

 

Eliot’s got a lump in his throat that’s stubbornly refusing to go anywhere, and he thanks his lucky stars, individually and by name, that fate and circumstance and Nate Ford brought these beautiful, infuriating people into his life and kept them there. He reaches back and squeezes Hardison’s hip. “Still look old,” he says.

 

“Ask Sophie for advice on moisturizers, then,” Hardison says. He steps away slightly, giving Eliot his space, and leans against the wall. “Still, I like it. You give off hot dad vibes.”

 

Eliot scowls at him, but Parker looks suddenly thoughtful and nervous. “I like that idea,” she says.

 

Her voice is quiet and small, and Eliot meets Hardison’s surprised eyes, recognizes the need to proceed with extreme caution. He schools his face to blankness, turning to Parker. “Yeah?” he says, cautiously.

 

Parker looks back and forth from Hardison to Eliot, her eyes searching their faces. Eliot holds himself still, can sense Hardison doing the same beside him, barely breathing.

 

Whatever Parker sees in their faces, it makes her smile, slow and soft and almost proud. “Yes,” she says, something decisive in her voice. “You’ll look good as dads. Lines and all.”

 

The words hang in the air for a moment, tiny and precious. Eliot resists the urge to sweep Parker into his arms, knows she’ll want her space; he resists whooping and dragging Hardison into an embrace--he knows that’ll come later. Instead he just beams at her, smiles so hard his face hurts and he can feel the lines deepening around his mouth and eyes, and after a moment Parker rolls her eyes a bit, hops off the counter, and steps into Eliot’s arms. She makes a grabbing motion at Hardison and he folds himself into the hug, grinning. They fit together like they always have, seamless, like they were made that way, and Eliot closes his eyes, savoring the moment. He feels warm and loved and happy and pure; he can smell Hardison’s cologne and Parker’s sweet conditioner, familiar and calm; he holds them tight, and lets the mirror go.

  



End file.
